The Sunday Papers
by Little Obsessions
Summary: The Ice Queen is affected by what the tabloids have to say. C/J.


Please Read and Review. None of the characters belong to me and all, aside from the plot, is property of Disney and Meg Cabot.

Thank you.

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There is one task that he has always completed, almost ritualistically, even though it is not at all in his remit. Each morning he goes down to the palace kitchen, even before the cooks are awake to begin breakfast, and takes the sizeable pile of papers from the step where they are left by a delivery man tasked only to deliver these papers to the Palace.

He vets them. They both pretend he doesn't, though Charlotte knows he does, but he checks every last page of every tabloid and broadsheet. He sits at the kitchen table, his coffee more often growing cold before it is drank, and scans it for a number of things. Her name, in particular, always draws his scrutiny but other things too – mention of the parliament, mention of the princess or a retrospective mention of the king or deceased crown prince. More often than not they are fine; usual gossip, mention of what Mia is wearing at Princeton, a comment on the queen's latest policy, but at times there is something suspicious, or on the occasion that it happens, something utterly explosive.

Thankfully, today is not one of those days. Sundays, he thinks wryly to himself, are always slow in Genovia and there is only a small article about the relationship between the princess and the reigning monarch. He reads over it and cringes – sometimes the smallest articles are the worst. Will he need to mention it? He doesn't quite know.

He jumps down from the high stool on which he has been sitting, scooping the heavy pile of papers from the table just as the head chef enters.

"Good morning Joe," he inclines his head, already reaching for the silver tray on which the Queen's breakfast is served, "I always get her breakfast just that little bit later on a Sunday."

Joseph likes the head chef, he's a decent man with undeniable culinary talent but he feels the need to converse constantly. He smiles charmingly and makes his way through the waking palace. This place is supposed to be a home, but it's a business. He thinks of the princes when they were young as he walks through the ballroom (the quickest way to get to her private office) because they managed to make this place hospitable. He had once caught them playing basketball in the massive room and rather than chastising them, and directing them to the court, he had joined in. Mia livens the place up a bit, he grants himself, but she only visits when her education permits. Clarisse lives and works and sleeps and eats in her work. That can't be good for anyone.

By the time he reaches Charlotte's office, his arms are getting sore. You're getting on old man, he thinks, and makes a mental note to do more than his usual punishing 2 hours in the fitness suite tonight. He leaves them on what is his desk, though he rarely uses it, and turns to the Queen's personal secretary.

"Anything today?"

He thrusts his hands into his pockets and, rocking back onto his heels, thinks for a moment. There is no real substance to the story, if it can be called that, but it is hurtful nonetheless. However, he thinks to himself, she reads things like this all the time.

"Just _The Reporter_," he answers, bringing the paper towards the young girl. It is Sunday, she is wearing jeans and a hooded top and she looks tired. They only work in the morning on a Sunday, unless Clarisse needs things done in the afternoon. He's grateful that she plans to take some time to herself today.

Charlotte grimaces because they both know that _The Reporte_r is renowned more for it's fantastical story telling than its journalistic merit. She waits on him to say more.

"Says that Mia hates her," he continues factually, leaning over and pointing at the article, given a half-page, at the bottom. The picture is one of Clarisse's recent official portrait, painted by the Royal commissioned artist. She hated it from the moment she laid eyes on it. There was no warmth in it she had said to him, as she had coldly turned her back on the newly hung portrait. He had to agree. Some critics had dubbed it 'The Potrait of the Ice Queen' – he understood fully why they did that.

"The Ice Queen Lives Up to Her Nickname," Charlotte reads the title aloud, "Relationship with Princess grows frostier."

"The sub line is the worst," he says at length, "Is it worth her seeing it?"

Joseph doesn't usually seek advice regarding this kind of matter. Usually he just shows her it, tells her to ignore it, and they laugh it off while she pretends it doesn't irk her in some way. She has had a very hard week though, and an argument with Mia on the phone over Mia's rather misguided choice to take a module in Liberal Arts and drop Economics for a term, and then that horrible portrait to top it off. Charlotte fully understands his apprehension too. Though there is a generation between them both, they work very well as a team and they have from the moment Charlotte was promoted to personal secretary. She thinks like him, which he really appreciates.

Charlotte places the paper down on her desk, "It's just gossip," she seems to ponder for a moment, "But she hates it if we keep anything from her and anyway she will find out – she'll ask to read them later. Should we phone Drew?"

He thinks for a moment, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms across his chest, "No, there's no need for the press officer on this. And he blows everything out of the water anyway; by tomorrow what had started as a whisper, in his hands, will become a roar. Imbecile."

Charlotte smiles, even though he knows it is against her better judgement. Joseph has always made it his personal policy to remain entirely silent when it comes to personal opinions on those who work around the queen. Her Chief Press officer was an exception to that personal rule because he was both blustering and incompetent. An opinion he has shared with not only Charlotte and the very man in question but the queen herself.

"It's just, at the most, slander," he continues, "And at the worst, bad journalism. I'll speak to her."

"Ok Joe," Charlotte nods as he checks his watch. He likes Charlotte because she never once alludes to the nature of the relationship he has with the Queen.

"She'll be up now," he says casually as he lifts the paper, "I'll speak to her in her suite."

This is where he and Charlotte differ. The queen's suite is strictly off limits to anyone aside from Joseph unless they are explicitly invited there or have to attend to her. He does not see it as a privilege, rather a necessity, that he can just walk in whenever he chooses. He's been handling her security for years and it comes with the territory. He motions for the footmen that continuously guard her doors (one from the household staff, another from his team who wears the livery of the house) and they open the doors, announcing him.

She's seated at her table, her hand propped on her tea-cup, the remained of her breakfast returned to the tray that Mrs Kowt has just scooped up to take back to the kitchens. Not eaten much today, he notes evenly. Olivia waits by her side though the Queen is already dressed.

"Good morning Your Majesty," he bows deeply.

"Good morning Joseph," she looks up from the personal correspondence she's been reading, folding the letter over and holding it up, "A letter from Pierre. He is very old fashioned really."

He knows her personal correspondence is one of her few indulgences and she reads it every Sunday. A letter from her sister or brother, a quick note from her son and updates from childhood friends keep her going. He hates to be the man to shatter that quiet happiness but he would rather it was him than anyone else.

"Would you like some tea?"

"No thank you ma'am," he answers, "But I'd like a moment of your time."

He never says 'I'd like a moment in private' because there is no such thing in this world. She understands him fully anyway and with delicate turn of her neck, dismisses Olivia.

"What's wrong Joseph?" She asks directly, as soon as the Lady's Maid closes the door behind her.

"There's a rather unkind article," he holds out the paper in his hand to emphasise his point, "Nothing out of the ordinary."

She steeples her fingers over her lips and sits back a little. Then she motions to the chair across from her. He takes it. He loves the way her fingers rest against her mouth.

"You would make a fantastic diplomat Joseph. It's a terrible shame that you enjoy fighting too much," she finally says, her caustic wit a great attraction to him, holding out her open hand. He puts the paper in it, dreading her response and fascinated by her determination. He watches as she reads the article, her face gives away nothing as she does so. She folds it neatly, methodically when she is finished then chucks it, with more for than he imagines she intended, down onto the table.

She looks up finally, her eyes glittering with mock-amusement, "I hate that portrait. The fact that it will hang in the National Gallery for the next year is a real consternation for me."

The silence he maintains is intentional. He has learned with Clarisse that you have to give her space to talk, otherwise she leaves him to make the cues and that is when she clams up because she's frightened she's giving too much away.

"I hate that nick name," she finally says and he is shocked by the soft, delicate nature of her voice. He's surprised this is what she has latched on to from the rather cruel piece she's just read. She's been called it for years. In fact, before he came to the palace, he had rather thought it suited her. He was very wrong, in so many ways.

"They used to say it about my boys. Once they took a photo of us and said I looked distant and cold. " She continues, "Rupert threw it at me during an argument once. My god, that night I gave him the sharp side of my tongue. I hate it Joseph, really I do."

She throws her hands out, suddenly animated, "Am I Joseph? Am I cold?"

Her mask is slipping; one inconsequential story, crowning a bad week, has made her slip.

He shakes his head, leaning forward. Without permission, he takes her hand, "No," he answers emphatically, "Of course you're not."

"This job has made me cold," she says quietly, "That is what it really is Joseph. I have to stay away from it, I have to be distant. Joseph, if I did not act this way, I would have nothing left."

He is pained for her yes, but more importantly, he is interested in this unprecedented honesty. He does not offer her comfort because that is the easy way to help her. Instead, he challenges her to an honest conversation. That is why he is invited to her chamber really, because he's not frightened of her like everyone else is. She looks to him for advice when she really needs it, not when she feels obliged to ask those who officially advise her.

"You think about this often?" He rubs his thumb over the the back of her hand, so she understands that the question is not a hostile one.

She nods, "All my life. Sometimes I lie in bed-" she stops herself, realising how entirely personal that is. He watches a blush creep up her face, contrasting rather boldly with the stark white of her turtle neck and wants to smile but knows he shouldn't. Instead, he nods. He holds back the urge to say, What? The bed I make love to you in? Let's not kid about my dear.

"Please," he squeezes her fingers, "Go on Clarisse."

"I think of my childhood. My entire life, trained and focussed on being the most well-bred woman I could be because I was betrothed to the Crown Prince. Once, my nanny caught me reading a romance novel, and I was roundly punished for it," she does not laugh at this recollection and he fears she may be being dismissive of something rather damaging, "I was never allowed Joseph and then I learned, after becoming Rupert's wife, that even if I had been allowed, there was no place for warmth. There was no privacy to be warm. I used to take my boys into my bed to read to them and the nannies would come and take them away – my babies, my children! Rupert was embarrassed to kiss me for fear of an unflattering story and I understood him entirely. Love never bloomed between us because we never had the opportunity. It takes me all of my energy to be this detached."

"You're not cold," he says very firmly, not raising his voice above a whisper as he points to the paper. He has to push the mention of Rupert aside. He swallows jealousy every time, "That's just solicitous gossip."

"Joseph," she looks him in the eye and he sees anger there, though not directed at him. The anger comes from somewhere else entirely, "You have saw me with Amelia."

Her self-doubt kills him. Yes, I've saw you, he wants to say. She looks at you with awe, with that little bit of fear we all have, but with love too. She comes running to me when she's upset you, simply because she can't bear it.

"That girl loves you," he insists, "Believe me. You didn't see her lying in the rain crying. She didn't take this crown for this country, this country that is often so unkind to you. She took it for you, because she admires you."

Clarisse looks up at him, "My fear is that it will be cruel to her. She is so full of life and overflowing and I was once happy like that, a long time ago."

He knows it is an admission of unhappiness. A deep unhappiness that has been in her since the day and hour he arrived at the palace. It is the unhappiness that creeps across her face between meetings, the one that is a constant companion on long journeys when she has little else to occupy her. It is the unhappiness that cruelly decorates her face in that small moment that her mask slips. It is the unhappiness that he is demolishing, moment by moment, kiss by kiss. He has witnessed her happiness on only a few occasions. He thinks back to the night of the ball in San Fransisco and the genuine happiness that pressed her body to his a little more. Happiness because her goal had been achieved. That happiness made him brave. He had kissed her that night.

"Could you be happy again?"

She bites her lip and looks at him, "I think so."

He understands, "I think so too."

"If they had held you like I had," he says lowly, reaching across so she cannot turn her face away out of embarrassment or shame, "They would not call you that, Clarisse."

He thinks of the passion with which she says his name. He looks momentarily to the double doors across the room; behind those doors is the bed in which they had finally stolen a moment 3 weeks before. His happiness is sustained by those memories.

"They would not know what to call you," he caresses her cheek, "Believe me."

On the first morning that he breaks his decade-spanning ritual, he has good reason. The papers were likely to be having a field day is one reason but primarily, he is in bed with his new wife and does not want to shatter the bliss just yet. In a bed he had once thought about from behind those double doors.

"Care to share your thoughts with me Joseph?"

"There are a million," he smiles widely, "Where should I start?"

"No one's head should be so full of thoughts at this time in the morning darling," she mutters kindly, lazily.

"I was thinking about how beautiful your body is," he runs his hand down her arm to illustrate his point, trails a finger down her abdomen, "And how good it is to-"

"You may be my husband," she interrupts, almost sharply but punctures it with a laugh, "But be gentle with me...I am very easily embarrassed."

"We will have to remedy that," he says seductively, kissing his neck.

"Not right now," she stretches out, "My body is rather aggrieved from such...strenuous activity."

"You flatter me madam," he answers, closing his eyes again. He doesn't want to admit it but his body is not too pleased either.

"I rarely give compliments that aren't genuine," she says seriously, "What else were you thinking?"

"That the Sunday papers will be having the time of their life. This time last week, I was picking them up from the - "

He feels her stiffen in his arms, her obvious reaction being that of the queen whom she had channelled for so long. He mentally scolds himself and stops his sentence.

"Hey, sorry," he rubs her shoulder, "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't, darling," she says airily.

"Clarisse," he says warmly but not without warning, "There will be quite a lot of questions to answer."

She looks at him and toys with the satin sheets of the bed.

"Yes, there will," she answers, "But I cannot help but care very little."

"Now that s_hould_ make headlines," he laughs, "Queen Couldn't Care Less!"

Her laughter, rich an unrestrained, fills her – their- bedroom. She is so deliciously at ease here that it is hard not to join her. She falls against him.

"Queen," she mimics him, "Stays Up All Night with New Husband."

"Queen Screams in Exstac-"

"Joseph," she swats his chest playfully and he delights in the smile on her face, "I have already made my feelings on that...for the time being...quite clear."

"For the time being?"

"Who knows," she says haughtily, "I might loosen up."

"Let's give it time," he says gently, reaching over and kissing her. There is no desperate need for each other, sated as it is for the moment, they can just take time to be in private with each other. True privacy.

"Ice Queen Finally Thaws," she says against his lips and he can feel her smile, a smile of genuine happiness.


End file.
